


Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy.

by PatPrecieux



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Conniving Sherlock, From a song title, It's For a Case, Jealous John Watson, M/M, early in the series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-27
Updated: 2017-09-27
Packaged: 2019-01-05 23:08:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12199257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PatPrecieux/pseuds/PatPrecieux
Summary: Sherlock goes on a case alone, John gets an eyeful.





	Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy.

**Author's Note:**

> John fills in at the A&E, leaving Sherlock to his own devices. What was he thinking?!

"Brilliant John!"

 

The almost deafening shout from Sherlock nearly caused John to drop his phone. He seldom called his lover, who preferred texting, but was so sure his extra shift would produce a sulk or worse, he decided the sound of his voice might soothe the tantrum. Apparently, he needn't have worried. Sherlock sounded thrilled.

 

"Brilliant? That's it? What's going on Sherlock?"

 

The detective had to think fast. "Don't be dull John, nothing is going on, as you put it. I'm simply enthused that the dolts at Bart's are finally acknowledging the brilliant physician they have in John Hamish Watson."

 

Placated but not entirely satisfied, John pressed on. "You're certain, no ulterior motives or arch enemies in the wings?"

 

"Honestly John, this isn't a bad mystery novel, it's you working an extra shift and I'm keeping the homefires burning."

 

"Burning? Is something burning?!"

 

"Now you are being, frankly, patently ridiculous. There are no fires, toxic fumes, assassins or bombs in the flat. 221B is as pristine as you left it this morning."

 

John suppressed a chuckle, "That's not saying much, you git. Alright then, you play quietly till I come home, and there'll be a hot spicy curry and a reward for you."

 

"You're going to bring me a necrotic pancreas or a gangrenous kidney? Oh I do love you John!"

 

"Wait. What? No! No human organs, diseased or otherwise. I WAS thinking more along the lines of steamy sex, but maybe we'll just have a cuppa and some Gingernuts."

 

"No that, ah, sex thing, that, ah, sounds eminently acceptable, John, although do bring the biscuits as well. You had best go now, I shan't be accused of making you negligent in your duties."

 

"Too right. I've only agreed to another half shift, so it should't be much later than half nine or so."

 

"Perfect, John! That is more than enough time."

 

"Time for what Sherlock?"

 

"To prepare myself for the coitus thingy. Need to dash. Mrs.Hudson is doing her Hoo Hoo warble. See you later, have fun!"

 

The call disconnected in his ear and John snorted, mumbling under his breath, "The coitus thingy? But do bring the biscuits. Oh Watson, you sex God. You've still got it."

***~~~***

John was relieved that the takeaway curry was the only foreign smell inside Baker Street. No disasters then, well done. When he pushed open the door however, the flat was dark. Calling out, followed by a thorough search, proved Sherlock was not home.

 

They had been through too many crises for him to be alarmed. Nothing was amiss, but of course the berk couldn't be arsed to care about leaving a clue as to where he had gone. "Mrs.Hudson!"

 

"I'm sorry dear, all I know is he rushed off bellowing about the game being on, or some such. Strangest thing though, John. I know I've got a hip so I couldn't really rush after him, and my eyes aren't any younger than the rest of me, but I would swear that Sherlock was wearing boots with spurs."

 

"Spurs? As in horse riding spurs?"

 

"After a fashion, but these were those jingly spinning one's like you see in those American Westerns."

 

"Well of course, he'd have a pair of those. Where the bloody hell would he go wearing those? Sorry, language."

 

She smiled at him and winked. "No worries dear, not my first rodeo. A case perhaps? Best call Garfield", she giggled.

 

He smirked, "Don't you start now, but I will call in the cavalry since apparently that is the theme for the evening. Go have your soother with a nip against the chill."

 

"A shot of Rye is, I believe, the proper barroom term."

 

John grinned, "You, Mrs.Hudson, are a marvel." It would be the doctor's last smile for awhile.

***~~~***

 

"John, mate, back with his majesty already? Didn't hear from him so I figured you were still on the case."

 

"Case? What case, Greg?"

 

"Shit, Sherlock told me you were going with him. I never would have let him..."

 

"Nevermind that now. Fill me in, where is he?"

 

A frenzied cab ride later, courtesy of a tip large enough to choke a horse, John walked through the swinging doors, [swinging doors? God the stuff you can find in Soho], of a posh new gay club called, Jesus Christ, "The Long Schlong Saloon".

 

Elbowing his way through the sweaty crowd, he scanned the room for his reckless lover. Still in his button-down shirt and dress pants, John felt every bit of his late thirties years as he was surrounded by a mass of humanity all dressed like a mishmash of Clint Eastwood/John Wayne wannabes.

 

Usually his stature didn't bother him, he'd been short all his life and made no apologies for it. He was NOT, however, going to balance atop a bar stool to find Sherlock. So he did the next best thing, he looked for spurs.

 

It was a good choice, as at the moment said boots and spurs seemed to be engulfed by a throng of "cowboys". "Oh bugger it all, charge Watson."

 

Plowing nearer his objective, he got his first clear view of Sherlock and just why he had drawn so much attention. John would think later that he was pretty sure his heart had stopped briefly. Sherlock was facing the bar draped across the surface as if he owned the place. 

 

He wore a hat, not THE hat, a black cowboy hat, a black leather fringed vest with no shirt, and black leather chaps. Tight, crotchless, bottomless chaps with only the tiniest black silk thong to cover what, if any, of his dignity was still left. The only flash of color was a scarf with slashes of fuchsia and rust tied around his neck, the ends prominently tucked in his right vest pocket.

 

If John's heart had indeed arrested, it was shocked back to rhythm by a ballistic, jealous rage as one after another of those strange men groped the two plush arse cheeks that belonged to him and only him.

 

"Get your filthy hands off him you fuckers!!"

 

Sherlock felt the glass of whiskey he had been nursing all night slip from his fingers and shatter on the floor behind the bar at the rage in his bloggers voice. He whipped around to face John, wide-eyed and suddenly flushed head to toe. At least the move had stopped the wandering hands.

 

A half drunk hooligan sauntered up to John and got in his face. "Oy! Talk a walk, this here cowpoke is ours.", he slurred in a thick Eastender accent. It would have been comical in other circumstances, but the doctor was not amused.

 

John kicked the man taking him down to the floor and planting a foot firmly in his back. "You listen to me! There's only ONE man who gets to "poke" THAT, and it's none of you piles of bullshit."

 

None seemed inclined to jump this new madman, but one other man ventured, "Don't see anything marks him as yours, pardner."

 

"Pardner?!", John winced. He was never watching a Western ever again. "Well, let's see." He grabbed Sherlock by the arm and pulled the scarf from around his neck revealing a series of deep love bites up and down the ivory column of flesh. "How about these?"

 

The man eyed them warily, not completely persuaded. "Those could be from anyone, mate. Don't see where he's wearing your brand anywhere."

 

John glared at him dangerously, "Give us just a minute, we'll be right back." He dragged his lover off to the loo only to return just moments later, looking clearly pleased with himself.

 

"You want to see my brand on him? Here ya go, pardner." He spun Sherlock around to reveal a bright red handprint on both of Sherlock's milk white assets. "This good enough for you, or should I brand some of your faces with my fists?" The murderous look on his face, and the blood in his eyes scattered the remaining crowd into the corners.

 

John was fuming, "Tell me you have your coat."

 

"It's freezing out John, and how did you expect I would have hailed a cab wearing..." His lover's scowl forced him to swallow the rest of the words.

 

Wrapping his detective in the Belstaff, the doctor ground out, "Need to call Greg to tell him I foiled your investigation?"

 

"That isn't necessary John, he..."

 

The blogger's eyes narrowed to flaming slits, "You bloody well solved it didn't you. Not just solved it, but wrapped things up before I even arrived. Yet, here you still were."

 

"Research John. The dynamic in places such as this is fascinating. I couldn't allow the opportunity to..."

 

"Opportunity for what exactly, genius? Seeing how many blokes could feel you up till I broke their necks?"

 

"Of course not, how could you think that I..."

 

"I'll TELL you what I think. I think that wasn't the plan to start, but then you took the chance that carrying on would get you just the little scene that played out here tonight. And don't you dare tell me you lost track of time and didn't expect I'd find you and see just what you were up to. You always know, Sherlock."

 

"Well I wasn't entirely mistaken."

 

"That remains to be seen, young man. Back to the ranch, now!"

***~~~***

The journey home was made in dead silence, ending with Sherlock bounding inside leaving John to again pay the cabbie. Once upstairs, the doctor was astounded to see Sherlock feigning utter nonchalance.

 

He strode over to the taller man snatching the hat from his head, and almost ripping the vest off his body.

 

"Fine, Watson. If you wish me unclothed, you have only to ask."

 

"What I want", he growled, "is you on the bed this instant! And do NOT climb on the sheets wearing those damned boots and spurs."

 

By the time Sherlock had struggled out of the expensive but almost too tight boots, John had become his audience. He reached for the buckle on the chaps, but John slapped his fingers away.

 

"Those stay on, brat!"

 

"That will prove to be inconvenient at best and uncomfortable at the worst."

 

"Do I look like I care, you tosser? On the bed ass up, get along little doggie!"

 

In position, Sherlock purred, "I feel I should apologize, sir."

 

"For getting what you wanted, darlin'? I wouldn't believe a word of it. This has rather worked out for you hasn't it?"

 

"I admit that it might have occurred to me that antics such as these could dampen your enthusiasm for those hateful extra shifts at the A&E and clinic."

 

"I see, and screw the possible problems?"

 

"There was no risk, John, I assure you."

 

"Do you even know what that colored scarf and it's placement means? Why am I even asking?" 

 

"The", he cleared his dry throat, "fuchsia denotes an enjoyment of spanking, and the rust a declaration of being a, umm, cowboy's horse." At this, he at least had the decency to blush. "The right pocket indicates I am the willing receiver as it were."

 

"The things you can learn from Google."

 

"Me? What about you?"

 

"Soldier during 'don't ask don't tell' remember? If there were codes for anything, the lads knew them."

 

"You never cease to amaze me doctor."

 

"And you talk too much, my little pony. One good thing to come of this though, I rather fancy you wearing my brands on your bottom. Think I'd better refresh them, color's a bit faded."

 

Soon the raven haired stallion was covered in the JHW brand, and the owner was riding him hard at full gallop. As he finished the race, John reined him in and inspected the creamy "lather" that had gathered at the front of his mount's soaked silk thong, and his crimson hindquarters.

 

The whole thing had caused a great amount of yelling which had left the horse a tad bit hoarse. Still he managed to groan, "I hope you are happy Watson. These chaps are ruined, I can never return them to the costumer."

 

John giggled, "That was the idea, so yes I am happy and not even saddlesore. A win for me all around I'd say. And what about my thoroughbred, my "Posh Boy" out of "Math Mom" and sired by "Sweet Tim". Any complaints?"

 

Slipping into a post orgasmic goo, Sherlock adopted a terrible American accent and drawled, "Feel like I been rode hard, and put away wet. Complaints? Noppppe!"

 

John gave him a scorching kiss and teased, "Well, what say we put on the feedbag and then I'll give my horse a rubdown?" 

 

"Sounds mighty fine, pardner. And later?"

 

"Dunno. Any deductions?"

 

Sherlock rolled onto his side mindful of his new "brands" and gave John a dirty smile. Then, tossing his mane, he sang at the top of his lungs, "Save a horse, ride a cowboy!"

**Author's Note:**

> * Title taken from the song by Big and Rich of the same name. No actual horses were harmed in this story.
> 
> ** The handkerchief color code is a real thing. I did take a bit of license in combining two colors. Some do in the code, just not those two. ;)
> 
> Cowboys and their horses rock!


End file.
